[some stubborn part of him fights all this anyway. the part that keeps thinking even when he's being thrown around and mauled, inviolate; the part that keeps thinking all the way up until he dies. it's fighting a more losing battle than it's used to, though, floundering at how to counter what's neither hurtful nor an enemy at all. unprecedented.
his hands are moving, exploring the planes of Minuet's torso, what he can feel of it through his clothes; sliding over wings with care but less gentleness, literal heavy petting. they tighten when he's bitten; the sting pulls a challenging tiny snarl out of him, a returned nip. the more he feels predator-pinned by Minuet the more he feels too hot for his skin and the less he can focus. the more the feathers burn without violence the more he feels like he's slowly losing his mind. he wants to turn them around and shove Minuet up against the wall in counterpoint. he wants this to keep going exactly as it is until he's fully given over, to see just how far Minuet will go.
[ They're having . . . some problems. This was not supposed to happen.
He senses that conflicted desire -- submission or rebellion, and either way, Vash is pretty sure it's a win for him. Dragging reactions out from under that perpetually cool, calculated exterior, forcing him to not just resign himself but embrace it.
Still. The hands on him send his hammering pulse straight to his throat, the beating loud in his ears, and he goes still. Conflicted, briefly, before swaying into the touch.
His gloved hand slides from Charon's neck, down across his throat, leather and callouses brushing the top ridge of his collarbone --
And then the touch is gone. His lips are gone, the wings that burn to the touch are gone, replaced by emptiness and feathers that drift like falling snow, glowing just a little too brightly.
at this point in the real world, Charon -- who was wide awake, doing barn chores, and doesn't register his own shared dreams until the moment that they're over -- drops a stack of plates with a crash.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
featherduster) wrote2023-06-15 02:30 pm
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
his hands are moving, exploring the planes of Minuet's torso, what he can feel of it through his clothes; sliding over wings with care but less gentleness, literal heavy petting. they tighten when he's bitten; the sting pulls a challenging tiny snarl out of him, a returned nip. the more he feels predator-pinned by Minuet the more he feels too hot for his skin and the less he can focus. the more the feathers burn without violence the more he feels like he's slowly losing his mind. he wants to turn them around and shove Minuet up against the wall in counterpoint. he wants this to keep going exactly as it is until he's fully given over, to see just how far Minuet will go.
THEY'RE HAVING SOME PROBLEMS]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
He senses that conflicted desire -- submission or rebellion, and either way, Vash is pretty sure it's a win for him. Dragging reactions out from under that perpetually cool, calculated exterior, forcing him to not just resign himself but embrace it.
Still. The hands on him send his hammering pulse straight to his throat, the beating loud in his ears, and he goes still. Conflicted, briefly, before swaying into the touch.
His gloved hand slides from Charon's neck, down across his throat, leather and callouses brushing the top ridge of his collarbone --
And then the touch is gone. His lips are gone, the wings that burn to the touch are gone, replaced by emptiness and feathers that drift like falling snow, glowing just a little too brightly.
If Charon touches one, it's warm. ]
Re: [still in the coma 20s somewhere]
at this point in the real world, Charon -- who was wide awake, doing barn chores, and doesn't register his own shared dreams until the moment that they're over -- drops a stack of plates with a crash.]